The Money That Money Can't Buy c-3

by James Munro

  "I don't suppose anything any more," said Craig. "Two fights in one day, and now you."

  She chuckled. "I've given in already," she said, and began to peel off her stockings. Her legs were beautiful, and she looked at them in frank affection.

  "Nice, aren't they?" she said, and Craig nodded. "Help me off with this thing."

  The gown was held together with hooks and eyes, and Craig fumbled happily, watching it open across her back, which was soft and smooth and gleaming in the lamplight, letting it slide to the floor. She stepped out of it with professional elegance, then turned to face him.

  "Still nice?" she asked.

  "Marvelous," said Craig.

  "Worth a fight, maybe?"

  "Two fights," said Craig, "and one of them with a bull."

  As he pulled off his boots, she raised one hand to her head, rounding one firm, tender-nippled breast, letting her thick yellow hair fall down to her shoulders.

  "I've let my hair down," she said. "That shows how much I like you."

  Her fingers moved to his waist, and she unbuckled his belt.

  "It's nice to strip somebody else for a change," said Tempest.

  She made love with a demanding passion that was strong and beautiful, and without pretense. Her sophistication was a fact he knew all about, and she used it for his pleasure and her own, neither flaunting it nor hiding it, but being to the very fullest extent herself, healthy and beautiful and friendly, even when making love.

  At last she said: "You really are strong, aren't you? I can always tell." And she slept neatly curled up against him.

  When she woke up it was an hour later, and he was out of bed, his fingers gently exploring the wall as they had explored her. Skillful, careful fingers. She had kissed them, and her mouth had told her how hard and dangerous they could be. The little one on his left hand was broken. His whole body was scarred. They were his scars, and she loved them.

  "What the hell are you looking for?" she asked.

  "Wires," he said. "This room's got to be bugged." ;

  "O-o- I hate bugs," said Tempest.

  "You'll hate these, all right," said Craig.

  They took some finding, but they were there. The wire recorder was two flat disks, let into the molding of plaster round the wall. Craig ran the wire back and played it through, and Tempest heard herself being loved. As the sounds came through she blushed an angry red and pulled the sheet up to her chin, and her shame was so deep she never noticed that Craig had possessed her in silence, and his words before their love-making were just words; polite and meaningless. Tempest hadn't time to think of this; her mind was pinned down on her shame. Then he found the video tape recorder. The camera lens was set in one of the splendid brass knobs of the bed, the tape ran down the brass pillar and curled on to the spool of the machine that had its own compartment in the enormous mattress. Sustained pressure on the bed set the camera going, and just in case one preferred love in the dark the machine had its own infrared bulb. Simmons thought of everything.

  "Congratulations," said Craig. "Simmons just made you a filmstar."

  She wanted to smash it there and then, but Craig wouldn't let her. Instead he took her nail file, and slowly, patiently made a tiny hole in the camera, then set the machine going again. That way Simmons couldn't be sure, and it would be as well to keep Simmons guessing.

  "You going to say anything about this?" he asked.

  She didn't answer. When he looked toward her he saw only a huddle of bedclothes. He cursed her inside his mind: this wasn't the time to have delicate feelings, but it seemed she had them anyway. What about the honeysuckle and the bee now? he thought. Or maybe that was just money. He went over to her, rubbed her shoulder.

  "Hey," he said. "Hey look. This is me, remember? I was a filmstar, too."

  His voice was gentle, soft, a friend's voice, and she looked up at last. She was crying.

  "Put the light out," she said. "I look awful."

  "No," s-id Craig. "You're beautiful, Tempest.

  That's a bloody silly name."

  His hand gripped the sheet and he began to pull it down. She clung to it.

  "Who's side are you on?" Craig asked. "Yours or his?"

  "My real name's Margaret," she said.

  "That doesn't suit you either," said Craig.

  His hand scooped beneath her neck and round her body, holding her. The woman struggled, and found it was no use. When she lay still at last, he pulled the sheet away and held her in his arms.

  "That's better," said Craig, and she nodded. She was as helpless and obedient as a child.

  Later she said: "I've been here twice before. He pays awfully well, and the blokes aren't bad. I suppose you think that's horrible?"

  "You know what I think," said Craig, and she laughed.

  "Only I never knew about the cameras and things," she said. "What's it for?"

  "To give him a hold on people."

  "Like you?" Craig nodded into her shoulder.

  "But darling, why should he?"

  The word "darling" almost made him wince. It wasn't a stage word; she meant it.

  "People like me have information," he said. "That's useful when you run a newspaper. Tell me about the blokes you met here."

  And she told him, not questioning his explanations. To her a rich man just took whatever he wanted, because he had money. That's what he had it for. Craig stroked her soft back, helping her to relax, and go on talking.

  "You going to complain about this?" he asked.

  "Brodski introduced us to him. He got us all together and made the proposition. Some of the girls said no at first. Then Jennifer came and talked to them alone."

  "You know what happened?"

  "No," said Tempest. "But they were scared of Jennifer. We all are. They said they'd go. Brodski didn't like it. He's a sweet man, really."

  "Did Simmons have a hold on him?"

  "He must have done," Tempest said. "You after Brodski too?"

  "Yes," said Craig. "His passport's expired."

  "I think he's in Morocco," said Tempest.

  "Morocco?"

  "I heard that Arab talking to Charlie, and he said the only other gentleman he knew was Polish and he lived in Morocco. Then Charlie said he'd do all right there because he'd kept a harem in London too. Then he looked at me. I'm sure he meant Brodski . . . Darling?" That bloody word again. "Is this helping you?"

  "Very much," said Craig. "It'll all go in my report. No names. Just 'information received.' "

  "You could use my name if you liked," said Tempest. "I don't mind. I'd do anything—"

  You bitch. You stupid, stupid bitch. Why do you have to get involved with me?

  11

  The ranch-house door was open, and Craig knocked and went inside. Simmons and Jane sat at breakfast, he in city clothes, she in a yellow dress. He looked up and smiled as Craig entered. Craig wore the work outfit again, and twiddled his plains hat in front of him as a nervous cowboy should when he goes to meet the boss.

  "Ah, Craig, you're up early," he said. "Sleep well?"

  "The best sleep I've had in years," said Craig. "Thank you."

  "I don't think we'll see the rest of the boys for hours yet," he said. "They got pretty drunk last night. You were wise to turn in early."

  "I think so," said Craig.

  She'd wept when he'd got up to leave her, made him take her address and telephone number, promise to come to the new show when it opened in a couple of weeks. The new show was interesting. She didn't even know who was financing it. It wouldn't hurt to find out. And so he'd been nice to her. . .

  The butler served him eggs, bacon, and coffee.

  Craig sat and watched the smooth assurance of his hands, the bland ease with which he stepped back, his job well done. Craig turned to him.

  "What do you say we go and have a walk around the bull?" he asked. "Just you and me."

  "I'm very sorry about that, sir," the butler said.

  "You should be," said Craig. "I di
dn't know Yugoslavs were so forgetful."

  Simmons's hand moved briefly, and the butler left. The breakfast was delicious; when he'd finished Simmons said: "I've had your briefcase brought over. Perhaps we can go over the business with my daughter now."

  "I have just a few questions," Craig said. "No need to keep you really."

  "All the same I'd rather stay," said Simmons. "Can't trust you F.O. types."

  Jane said: "Oh daddy," like a dutiful daughter, but her eyes were on Craig.

  They sat by the window and watched the horses running in the paddock, playing at combat in the rich summer grass. Once more Craig took her over her story and Simmons listened as the answers came, now sure, now hesitant. He blinked as Craig mimicked the noises that the Russian killer had made, the Cantonese sing-song that told Comrade Soong he was going to die, and Jane nodded her agreement.

  "What on earth is all this?" he asked. "Why is the F.O. involved?"

  "We have reason to believe Soong was a spy," said Craig. "So were the chaps who killed him."

  "I suppose that's secret information?"

  "Oh, absolutely," said Craig. "As a matter of fact you never heard it. Neither did I."

  "You're telling me a spy can come here and literally get away with murder?"

  "Anybody can," said Craig, "if they've had the right training." He paused. "Charlie could."

  "Charlie?" said Jane.

  "He and Craig here had a fight last night," said Simmons. "It was all just cowboys." "Who won?"

  "Craig. It seems his hobby is jujitsu." Jane looked puzzled.

  "That's judo with atimi-attacking blows," said Craig. "It's about the only defense against karate there is."

  "Charlie used karate?"

  "Oh yes. He seemed quite adept," Craig said. "It's just as well I kept up my jujitsu classes. The F.O. runs a very good club, you know."

  "Do they teach you how to fight bulls, too?" asked Simmons.

  "No," said Craig. "You have to find that out for yourself." He stood up. "You've really been awfully helpful—"

  "Not at all," said Simmons. "I hope you catch them."

  "Me, too," said Jane. "But you're not going, are you?"

  She glowered at Simmons, who suddenly realized that Craig couldn't possibly leave. He had to go to town for a couple of days to see an editor, and Craig must and should stay on to entertain his daughter. He kissed her, said goodbye to Craig, and left. They sat and watched the palomino stud move like mercury across the meadow. Behind him two mares trotted, submissive. The girl looked at Craig. She realized that she had more than her fear of him to combat. With it there came a paralyzing shyness, and this also was new.

  "I hope you and Charlie haven't quarreled for good," she said. "I rather like Charlie."

  "I should hope so," said Craig, and she blushed, a sullen, unattractive red. She felt about fifteen years old.

  "Daddy's sure I'm going to marry him," she said. "I'm not as sure as he is. Did you hurt him?"

  "Not much," said Craig. "How's the bull?"

  She giggled then, and felt more girlish than ever.

  "He's still got a black eye," she said, and tried desperately to be the hostess once more.

  "What would you like to do?" she asked.

  "What about the others?" asked Craig.

  "They never want to do anything after one of Daddy's parties."

  "I've got a bull as well," said Craig. "Come and have a look."

  They walked through the rose garden and into the house. The butler appeared at once, like a djinn from an uncorked bottle.

  "Thank you, Zelko," said Jane. "We won't need you."

  He bowed, and left, and Craig turned to her. "Zelko?" he asked.

  "That's his first name really," said Jane. "His second name's Gabrilovic or something. Far too complicated, Daddy says. So he's Zelko."

  "Your father seems very fond of him."

  "That boring old war," said Jane. "His father and Daddy saved each others' lives all the time in Yugoslavia. Let's look at your bull."

  He showed her the Miura, and she was enchanted. "You'd better make yourself dishy," Loomis had said, and the car was all it needed. She adored everything about it, from the fighting bull emblem to the comfort of the two vast seats that nearly filled the car. Craig pressed the starter and thought: What quality did I value most when I was twenty? And the answer was rebellion, obviously. At twenty one could not, would not conform. The engine fired, roared once, then relapsed to its whisper of easy power. Craig decided to break some laws.

  Jane had been in E-types, Maseratis, Ferraris, had driven and been driven at speed, but this time the car, like the man, was new to her, and powerful and frightening. She felt the threat of it as he drove her back toward London, and the speedometer flicked to seventy, and the engine purred, half-asleep. At seventy the car made no effort at all; it was waiting for the signal that would send it forward with a speed that makes the loping look like stillness. And so it happened. Craig found the road he was seeking, when two lanes swelled at last to four, and his right foot moved smoothly, inexorably down. What followed was something she had never known before—a ride in a high-performance car handled by a master. The road was quiet, and the outside lane for the most part empty, so that the car's speed soared from fifty to seventy to a hundred and twenty, and the engine still whispered its song, contemptuous that the road would allow no more as the little saloons flicked by on the inside lane. Once she heard the sound of a police car and looked back, but the car was a white blur in the distance that dwindled into a dot.

  "Don't worry," said Craig. "They were too far away to get the number."

  "I'm glad," Jane said. "I hate policemen."

  They came to a roundabout and Craig felt his way to the byroads that would take him back to Simmons's house. He was delighted with the Lamborghini. The fastest way to a girl's heart...

  "Don't let's go home for lunch," said Jane.

  So he drove again into the winding lanes, and she rejoiced that she had worn a yellow dress that could at least survive against the Lamborghini's triumphant scarlet. He found a pub that would do, low-shingled, deep-walled, authentic, with polished horse-brasses in the bar and a primly chintzed dining room. He bought her a gin and tonic, and bitter for himself. The barman looked at his workshirt and jeans, and visibly doubted his ability to pay. His amused contempt brushed off Craig like a feather off armor plating, and he offered her a cigarette, then took one himself.

  "I like to get away sometimes like this," she said. "You've no idea how dull it can be, just sitting around in a period gem."

  "I bet," said Craig, and stared at the barman, who was far too near, until the barman flushed, moved away, and began to polish an already sparkling glass.

  "What do you do all day?" asked Craig.

  "Well—entertaining for Daddy mostly. When he's at home. Otherwise it's just Charlie or something."

  "Don't you go to London?"

  "Sometimes," she said. "Daddy isn't awfully keen on it."

  "He let you go on that walking tour."

  "It was his idea," she said. "He thought I needed the exercise." She paused. "He does let me off the hook sometimes, you know. I'm not a prisoner exactly."

  "Go where?"

  She thought: He's so hard he doesn't even recognize his own hardness. It's just a fact, like the way his eyes tell you nothing. Even now. And yet he must be interested, or he wouldn't ask.

  "Oh Ischia and Paris and Cannes and Mykonos," she said. "You know. The places one goes to. Holidays and all that. And he takes me away on business sometimes. I've been to West Berlin and Rabat—and Yugoslavia. We're going to Morocco again next year. Then to the States, if I'm a good girl."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Being true to Charlie," said Jane.

  "Is it worth it?"

  "I've never tried it," she said, "so I don't know. And I don't want to start now."

  He looked down at her, and for a moment she could see emotion in his eyes, and in the way
his mouth relaxed, but it vanished too quickly for her to read it, which was as well. Craig had begun to pity her, but he stopped himself well in time.

  "Would you like to eat?" he asked, and she nodded, and moved toward the dining room. Craig looked toward the glass in the barman's hand.

  "You go on like that and you'll break it," said

  Craig. "You're too rough."

  The barman polished the glass more viciously than ever. Its stem snapped.

  "I told you," said Craig.

  At the dining-room door a headwaiter met them, looked back at his impeccably dressed clientele, then at the two in the doorway once more. The girl was fine, almost too good, he thought. But the man . . . Craig read the look. "It's all right," he said. "I'm an eccentric millionaire."

  "Indeed, sir?" said the headwaiter.

  "Indeed," said Craig. "That's my car outside."

  The headwaiter's eyes flicked once to the win-dow,"and the Lamborghini it framed, and he led them to a table, a good one, secure from eavesdroppers and with a view of the garden. His hand flicked away a "Reserved" sign as if it were an abomination and menus appeared in front of them like a trick with giant cards.

  "You'll have to order all the expensive things now," said Jane, then blushed.

  Craig laughed. "It really is my car," he said.

  She ordered vegetable soup, roast beef and apple tart, was nervous about claret and settled for Burgundy.

  "They're really very good here," she said, "and Daddy only likes French food, except when he's playing cowboys."

  "Do you like playing cowboys, too?" he asked.

  "Oh yes," she said viciously. "I like everything that Daddy does."

  "Do you really?"

  "I have to," she said. "If I didn't, he might not leave me his money when he dies. He won't die for ages, either."

  "He looks healthy enough," said Craig.

  "You've no idea," said Jane, and another warning was stored in Craig's memory, as he began to talk to her about the places he had been to, and the wars he had seen. There was a violence to her that her father had given her, and she listened eagerly, scarcely noticing the food she had chosen so carefully.

  When the coffee came she said: "You're very like Daddy." He was silent. "I meant that as a compliment, really."